


evening sun

by multijoy



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, Anxiety, Drug Use, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Neglect, POV Rey (Star Wars), Rey Needs A Hug, Rose is a bad influence, Secret Relationship, Slow Burn, Teacher-Student Relationship, Teenage Rebellion, Underage Drinking, Underage Kissing, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, ben has a dog, sad rey, we love hemingway in this house
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-13 21:26:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15373662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/multijoy/pseuds/multijoy
Summary: Rey is often left alone to deal with changes. This time, it's a new step-dad, new school, and pressure she faces as her friends grow up around her.The world isn't always forgiving, and Ben Solo- her literature teacher- knows this better than anyone. In this turbulent time, Rey gravitates closer to the one person who understands her.Maybe it's nice not to be alone.





	evening sun

**Author's Note:**

> hi guys here's my first shot at some reylo! i present to you: rebellious teen rey and asshole teacher ben solo. i really have never followed through with trying to write a full ass lengthy fanfic, but i have a bunch of 1st chapters written. it's time to face my fears with this baby

My hands are sticky with sweat and some lavender scented lotion that I got in a sample, picking and tearing at the thin foil of my poptart bag. September mornings are cool, sun barely lighting the sidewalk in front of me at 6:45 am. It probably isn’t necessary to leave this early, but it’s hard to trust your phone’s shitty navigation system on the first day of school.

First day, but also the fact that I’ll be the new kid has me picking at the bag with increased fervor. Never really had to go through this before, and against my will, my mind pulls up memories of movies I watched where the new kid gets pushed into a locker or gets food thrown at them. I’ve never personally witnessed this happen at my old school to the new kids, or been one, but allegedly New Yorkers are crazy. 

We’re not in the city- just the state- but I don’t blame them for being cranky; just the week I spent here so far has made me want to hitchhike back to Louisiana. It’s warm there, and nice. I know every store around Mid-City, I know everything there, and nothing here. 

Five minutes into my walk, and I come to the conclusion that I do in fact know something- our apartment is probably in the shittiest development in town. It’s so residential here, tons of actual houses and yards, SUVs parked in the driveway, clean green street signs on every well maintained corner. I cram the remaining strawberry poptart in my mouth to distract myself from getting too anxious over this all. Chew, swallow. I couldn’t expect much more than this.

I turn onto the main road that will eventually lead me to my high school, and instantly hate it because cars drive past, probably holding my fellow classmates on their way to school. Sitting in comfy seats, morning radio show blasting. Maybe one day one of them will give me a ride, but not today. Today, I walk under trees and let my ankles get wet from dew. 

Running across the street to enter the parking lot of the school, my backpack flops around because it’s kind of empty, so I pull it tighter to my back. A standard two-story brick building greets me upon entering the parking lot after I could consciously look without being worried about getting run over. School starts at 7:30, but I still see people mulling around their cars, and herding into the main entrance. It’s probably best to walk in with a big group, so I fast walk toward the entrance to hover near a group of younger boys. They mess around and shove each other, and in the process, a kid is shoved into my shoulder. I breathe and stare straight ahead, but consider stuffing my poptart bag into one of their backpacks. 

First class is Spanish, and I spend the first 10 minutes of my time wandering around, trying to figure out a pattern for the room numbers. Luckily the school is just a giant rectangle, with some signs on corners that direct you with arrows in comic sans font. Taking another lap before the half hour mark approaches, my shoes squeak on the floor- which looks like it was newly shined in anticipation of the first day of school. The lockers are alternatingly green and yellow, and from the kind of obnoxious display of posters, the school mascot must be a viking. 

Under my hoodie sleeves, my nails dig into my wet palms, and the chewed up poptart tumbles around in my stomach, almost threatening to come back up at any moment. This is dumb. Maybe I should’ve worn jeans, not worn out shorts that I am now just noticing makes it looks like I’m not wearing pants when paired with my massive hoodie. I look at my reflection in a passing trophy case; will I get dress-coded?

Well, it’s 7:25 so I just bunch the hoodie around my waist and zero in on a door covered with the flag of Spain. I hear voices inside, chair shifting on the ground, bags being dropped, and see the Spanish teacher waiting by the door to greet each student that passes in. My back is straight, and I smile back nicely when she greets me with an energetic, “¡Hola, chica!” 

Between that, the colorful decorations littered around the room, and the amount of people that I register after walking into the room, I just want to go back to my bedroom and go in the closet with a blanket. I stiffly walk over to the nearest desk, only to find a name-card that contained someone else’s name. I scan the room, trying to avoid looking at anyone dead in the face, and find the only other empty desk in the center of the rest. 

I hop over backpacks in the aisle, and twist around to avoid bumping anyone’s desk to get to the promising vacant seat. Jesus, some of their backpacks were so big for the first day, and some have lunchboxes, I wish if their mom packed them? Corresponding with the name-card, ‘Rey Plutt’, I pull out the chair and sit down. I can already feel my thighs stick to the chair despite the air conditioning, and I will my back to relax against the seat.

Pulling out a notebook because that seems to be what everyone else is doing, I hear a boy’s voice argue heatedly against a higher pitched voice to my right. The girl snickers breathlessly in response to the other voice raging, “It’s not my fault that he wanted to suck my dick!” 

I scratched at my ear and tried to imagine what the context of that statement could possibly be, but still it’s none of my business. A foot encased in some Vans suddenly stretches out across the aisle, and jolts the leg of my desk. I look up and meet eyes with a girl whose blunt bangs and winged eyeliner make me instantly feel like I’m an ant being sized up. 

“Hey you,” she addresses me, eyes flickering between my hoodie and my face. I smooth down the back of my hair, and blink quickly a few times. “When’d you move here?” 

My poor brain races to remember the exact date on which I stumbled into my new bedroom with some boxes. “Ah, like a few weeks ago? Beginning of August.” 

She considers my reply with pursed lips and a slow nod, still scrutinizing me- though I can’t tell if it was a bad thing. “Cool. It’s kind of ass here. I like your hoodie though,” she offers. Her head is resting on her palm, wrist adorned with a leather cuff and beaded bracelets. 

She looks at me blankly for a second, until I remember my body’s natural defense mechanism- the resting bitch face- and tuck my lips into a thankful smile. “Thanks!” I exalt, even though the Disney hoodie I thrifted 2 years ago isn’t that much of a sight to behold. Well, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. “It seems kind of ass.” 

She grins and opens her mouth quickly to inquire, “Have you ever been to Disney World? I watched this video that said Walt Disney was secretly a pedophi-”

“Anyway. Rose, shut up,” the voice next to her huffed in deadpan annoyance. A snort escapes my lips, and a hand is stuck into my line of vision. “Hi, I’m Finn.” 

His hand is big and warm, but still rough when I shake it, and I smile at him eagerly. “My name’s Rey.” He beams in response, his whole face consumed by warmth and dimples. A smaller hand clasps onto the outside of our handshake, and the girl smiles with lots of teeth.

“That’s Rose,” Finn introduces, before he is cut off by our Spanish teacher walking into the room and interrupting the chatter with a loud greeting. My chest feels less heavy.

The next few periods are okay- math and history. After the initial stress of finding a seat and answering the question, “Are you new?”, the following class time is boring, and filled with expectations and rules. I saw Finn in math, but he was on the other side of the room so I didn’t bother saying hi. Maybe tomorrow. I drift into a light state of sleep for a few seconds, careful not to slip into a full nap on my first day. Looking at my schedule, I feel a surge of excitement because next on my schedule is art. 

After shoving the history syllabus into my backpack, I venture out into the crowded halls to locate the art room. It’s not too physically crowded, but I smell cologne and disinfectant, hear people talk on all sides of me, and it’s still a lot. The art room is tucked between a music room and some bathrooms, instantly recognizable because there’s a huge mural on the wall next to the door. A viking with a painting smock, and holding a painting palette greets me with bold letters: “ART RULES!” 

Stepping in, I am hit with the distinct smell of paint, crayons, paper, and something possibly burning in the background, but I’m not sure what. I greedily inhale the scent, and wander over to one of the four round tables around the room that looks the least crowded.

A tall woman with purple hair in a neat updo and glasses peeks out of the backroom, and shouts, “Hi everyone, sit wherever you’d like!” Validated in my seating choice, I pull out a chair at the table. My seatmates smile at me, but continue talking amongst themselves. I guess they’re friends, but it’s okay because at least we’re near the window, and a radio sits on a bookshelf behind me. 

The art teacher, Ms. Holdo, fills up the whole room with her funny ramblings and unique laughs at her own humor. She’s kind of weird but everyone is relaxed, or eating a snack, so I think that I’ll like it here. “There’s no judgement here,” she assures. “Art is whatever you want it to be, as long as you show some effort.” After clicking on the radio, she allows us to have free range within the art room, to show her what we can do. I follow the people at my table toward a cabinet, and just grab a 64-pack box of Crayolas, and some printer paper. Feeling inspired by a plant in the corner of the room, I draw a monster of a big leafy potted plant that nearly consumes the whole paper. The radio plays classic rock, and this room is weirdly humid and warm, so the air feels heavy in my lungs but comforting. 

The bell rings, and I start putting the crayons back in their respective places when Ms. Holdo sneaks up behind me and snags my drawing up in a second. I whirl to face her as she peers down at my drawing through her big framed glasses. “Nicely done, especially with crayons,” she praises, handing the paper back to me afterwards. “It’s nice to see some people using crayons apart from 7 year olds,” she teases.

I crack a smile and slip the straps of my backpack around my shoulders. “Yeah, I mean, I try not to be a snob with art supplies,” she watches me fold the drawing into a messy square, and shares a smile. “Well, see you tomorrow.” 

At this, she turns to head back over to her desk, the orange skirt floating around her ankles like a cloud.”See you tomorrow…?”

“Rey,” I fill in. 

My steps are more deliberate, and I look at my peers as they pass by in the hallway. They look like normal, non-threatening teenagers. Much different from what I anticipated, because so far no one has stared too long or said something rude. Hopefully after today, I can find something new to worry about.

My language arts class is upstairs, so I walk into the stairwell and take the steps two at a time. At one of the landings, a big window overlooks the football field and a baseball field. The sun is kind of hidden by the clouds still at 11:30, but I take it as a good omen for the rest of the day. Reaching the second floor, I am bombarded with the AC which seems really strong on this level. My arms curl into my stomach, and I search for the correct room number so I can just sit down and rub my legs. 

The room I’m looking for has a small paper taped next to the doorway that reads, “Man is not made for defeat- Ernest Hemingway.” I appreciate the encouraging sentiment, but also wonder if the quote is hanging there as a warning sign for this class. I mean, he can try and fail me, but I am literate at least. Good luck, Mr. Solo.

The classroom is dark, lit only by the projector that broadcasts: ‘American Literature’ in bold on the board, and the windows. There’s no name-cards on these seats, and the desks are split up into two big rectangles, like a dinner table. A hand suddenly flashes up near the windows, the bangs are familiar- it’s Rose. I smile widely and rush over to take the vacant seat next to her. She’s like an angel when she pulls out my chair for me, and instantly starts talking about her day so far.

I chip in, nodding when she waves her hands to tell a story, and finally adding to her rant: “Yeah, it’s been pretty fuckin’ boring.” It’s hard to say much else because she’s the type of person that just consumes the conversation- which isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

A thud resounds through the classroom, and I turn around to find a man hunched over in the closet in the back corner. His back is wide and clothed in a gray dress shirt, so I safely predict that he’s our Lit teacher. Rose flicks my knee. “I hope he doesn’t chew us up this year. Wait actually, never mind, I hope he does.” 

She receives a disgusted look from me, and I hunch down to grab a notebook out of my bag on the floor. In my peripheral, shiny black shoes stride past my desk, so I look up to see our teacher. He’s incredibly tall, with black hair and harsh features. His physical presence is almost threatening at the front of the room, and I hurry to straighten back up in my seat with the notebook. 

Mr. Solo begins handing out books that are stacked in his arms, starting with the other side of the room. He doesn’t make eye contact with anyone when he states loudly, “Welcome to American Lit.” He soon drops a book onto my desk- a collection of short stories by Hemingway. I guess he’s a favorite in here. 

My classmates flip through the book in apparent distaste, and Mr. Solo smiles sardonically as he leans against the windows. “I have three rules: be respectful, use your minds, and just read the books I give you.” 

Someone mutters something, and a lone laugh turns into a cough, a pathetic attempt in trying to save their ass. It’s too late though, and Mr. Solo doesn’t seem to be an idiot. “I think Mr. Hux might be having some difficulty following my second rule already,” he speculates quickly, and the room ‘ooooooh’s at the expense of this kid, Hux. 

Once his face matches the red of his hair, Mr. Solo smiles a little and pushes away from the window to stand behind his desk. “Let’s go around the room and have everyone introduce themselves, and share a quick fact,” he demands, and my blood runs cold. Anything but this.

Rose just sighs and taps her fingers on the desk in boredom beside me while people start sharing basic facts about themselves: they play football, they have a dog, what their favorite band is. Meanwhile, my brain struggles to come up with a fact that is mildly interesting.  
Mr. Solo sometimes asks a follow up question, and seems to encourage the class’ reactions to a dumb fact- which doesn’t help me. At our table, Rose goes before me. 

“Hey guys, my name’s Rose Tico, and I have never broken a bone in my body.” She says this without hesitation, like she just came up with this on the spot, and I’m insanely jealous. 

Mr. Solo considers this with weight before replying, “You might have just jinxed yourself.” Rose snorts from beside me, but she doesn’t grace him with a reply. Damn it, please just delay my suffering. Soon enough, the whole class is looking at me, ready for me to share a fact. 

“My name is Rey Plutt,” I begin lamely, “and I… am an only child.” 

He twists his lips and stares at me. “So am I. You know, only children are supposed to be spoiled, and maladjusted.” 

What. “Oh,” I deadpan. “Well, I don’t think I am.” 

He picks up the Hemingway book with a smirk on his face. “We’ll keep an eye on you,” then announces much louder, “Read “A Clean Well Lighted Place” tonight. Don’t just look up a summary for god’s sake.” Rose looks at me and rolls her eyes, whispering something under her breath about homework on the first day. 

Yeah, I guess that’s shitty but also- I regret not having a chance to respond to Mr. Solo. Imagine a spoiled child, then imagine the exact opposite, there’s me. He seems like he’s maladjusted, anyway. 

The bell rings, I shove the book into my backpack, and quickly slip into the hallway.


End file.
